


One Last Tender Lie

by SoldierOfMyShadowyMind



Series: Love and other nonsense [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur pretends to be annoyed, Banter, Developing Relationship, Drunk Eames, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Humor, Hurt Eames (Inception), Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Insecure Arthur, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Soon to be Resolved, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:43:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24133783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoldierOfMyShadowyMind/pseuds/SoldierOfMyShadowyMind
Summary: Arthur rolls his eyes. “Serves you right.”Wide, incredulous eyes stare at him in disbelief.“Don’t look so upset. You get what you deserve, never heard of that? Should spare a thought to that every now and again.”Eames looks as though he’s considering it, decides he doesn’t like, then changes his mind and says, cheerily, “Don’t you think we deserve each other, pet?”There's not much Arthur wants from tonight: work and maybe enjoy a drink. Preferably alone.Eames has other plans.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: Love and other nonsense [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741459
Comments: 4
Kudos: 97





	One Last Tender Lie

**Author's Note:**

> I was re-watching Peaky Blinders and happened upon a scene during which my brain went “What if this were Eames?” So I took up the metaphorical pen and paper but what came out was so far from what I’d intended that I decided to start again and write the scene I actually had in mind. That time around it more or less worked. So I’m posting this one first but I will post the other one also because I didn’t just write 12k in total for nothing. I’ll probably make this a series à la variations on a theme (the theme being drunk Eames).  
> Now, this version is, hopefully, somewhat lighter and funnier than the other one (and possibly more in character but I’ll let you be the judge of that when I post it in a few days). There’s still angst in here because apparently I can’t resist a good dose of hurt.
> 
> The title is supplied by Keane’s wonderful song _This Is The Last Time_. This story and especially the scene at the beginning was inspired by Peaky Blinders S4E05 in which a drunk Arthur Shelby surprises his wife in a similar manner.

The bar isn’t exactly crowded but it isn’t empty either. Just the right amount of people to make any conversation inconspicuous without the danger of missing vital and possibly life-saving parts of it. The music that filters through well-hidden speakers is jazzy and slow and the low volume in combination with the subdued lighting gives the place a comfortable, even intimate atmosphere.

Not that Arthur is here for the latter. He’s here to work.

The thought that this meeting might look to an outsider as a date doesn’t sit right with him. Then again, why would anyone think that at all? He picked this place precisely because he didn’t want the booths to have eyes and ears. And now he feels as if he’s drawing attention to them by the power of his thoughts alone.

Fucking phenomenal. He’s not normally this distracted. Arthur frowns and blames whoever designed this bar for putting wayward thoughts into his head that have no business being there. Yes, it’s been a while but that doesn’t mean he’s going to let the atmosphere lull him into any stupid ideas. Especially not with his current companion.

Besides, if it were just about sex, there’d be a far more convenient option.

Okay, _convenient_ is probably the wrong word. More readily available? With the added bonus of repercussions, most likely.

Which is why Arthur determinedly does not go there.

“Something the matter?”

Arthur snaps out of his dismal ruminations, embarrassed to find he’s lost track of the conversation. Right. He’s _never_ coming back here again.

“No, carry on.” Gritting his teeth, Arthur takes a sip of his gin and tonic, pacing himself. This is a business meeting after all, he needs a clear head. As clear as this place will let it be, anyway. Arthur scowls again for good measure.

From behind the rim of his glass, he gauges the progress of the conversation. His counterpart is well into his second beer which means there’ll be at least a third glass to join the gathering family across the table before Arthur will be able to draw this to a close. Or fabricate an excuse to get out of here, depending on the state of his nerves that is, admittedly, deteriorating by the minute.

Hunter’s drinking habits are a badly kept secret in their circles. Probably not the wisest decision to get roped in with him. But Hunter delivers. And he’s hardly more reckless than Cobb.

Arthur knows it’s getting bad when he’s starting to take Cobb as a benchmark. Eames would probably have something to say about that.

Great. He’s come full circle. Arthur doesn’t know when the evening’s veered so far off the road that he’s now having an imaginary Eames running a sharp-witted, sarcastic commentary in his head but it is decidedly unhelpful.

Arthur takes a more generous sip of his drink. He never knows if the alcohol makes it better or worse.

It’s not that Eames is necessarily wrong about Cobb but it stands to reason that he is definitely wrong about most things. And Arthur can do without his so called life advice, thanks very much. He yanks his thoughts away from Eames and thanks whatever higher power that a certain forger is notably absent.

Arthur tunes back into the one-sided conversation. Hunter’s been talking for the better part of fifteen minutes now and a third beer has miraculously appeared in front of him. On the bright side that means they should be through with this in short order.

The job itself is easy enough – a simple extraction – but their mark is tricky to get at. Some say Hunter chooses these kinds of jobs deliberately because he likes the thrill of the danger and Arthur does believe this to be true, to an extent. But whatever his motivation, the man is an expert at what he does and a valuable addition to any team that has the foresight to plan for more eventualities than even the most cautious among their trade.

He’s a possibly explosive variable but a variable Arthur needs if he’s going to pull this off.

A sudden noise disrupts the quiet murmur permeating the bar and Arthur’s very glad he’s just set his glass down because, well. There’s a loud bang from the direction of the door followed by a colourful string of curses and then—

“Arthur!”

Arthur barely resists the urge to thump his head against the table and wishes he could just silently disappear into the wallpaper. His wish is denied, it seems, because Eames is already making his unsteady way towards them, blissfully ignorant of the numerous pairs of eyes staring at him. He’s swaying dangerously and almost loses his balance when his foot catches on the leg of a chair.

Eames, it appears, has not been pacing himself.

Arthur briefly contemplates hightailing it out of the back door. He figures his plan of absconding will go down better with Hunter than whatever embarrassment a certain drunk Englishman is going to subject him to once he’s put his feet in order.

Eames makes the decision for him as he ungracefully thunks his hands onto the table, heavily bracing himself on this arms.

“Arthur” he slurs, roguish grin inevitably in place, “fancy seeing you here.”

Arthur is saved the effort to form any sort of reply when Eames overbalances, slides his hands forward in search of support but only manages to snag one of Hunter’s empty beer glasses, smacks his forehead against the edge of the table, and flops down onto the floor, taking the glass down with him in a rain of shards. The sound of the shattering glass makes Arthur grimace as he risks a glance at Hunter, who, judging by his expression, is finding this display of idiocy highly amusing.

Arthur sighs deeply as he turns a disapproving glare towards the heap of limbs on the floor. “Fucking hell, Eames.”

Where the fuck did the man even come from? Arthur’s wandering thoughts must have conjured him up. If that’s the case Arthur’s going to have to have a stern talk with himself. He knew Eames was in the city but the man had no way of knowing where Arthur would be tonight. Arthur winces at the thought of Eames staggering through the streets, yelling his name into every side street he passed.

“Sorry to disturb your date” the paisley patterned pile garbles from the floor. Arthur would punch him if he weren’t already laid out backwards amidst a glittering sea of pieces of glass. “But I have a…” Eames trails off, scrunching up his face in an exaggerated attempt at miming deep contemplation before his eyes light up like a child’s on Christmas, “reason! That’s it.”

“You could have fooled me” Arthur grumbles, feeling decidedly uncomfortable in his own skin.

Hunter is watching the scene with undisguised delight and Arthur can feel the eyes of the other patrons still on them.

Suddenly, Eames seems to remember his current predicament and ungainly sticks out a hand. “Would you mind, darling?” he asks, the hiccup punctuating the question removing any finesse the words might otherwise have held.

Arthur is sorely tempted to just walk out of here and leave Eames to his own devices for the use of the detested pet name alone but he supposes that wouldn’t help anyone. It’s definitely not the absolutely miserable look Eames gives him that tugs a little at his heart that makes Arthur sigh and graciously hold out his hand.

“You’re going to have to work with me here” he says, rolling his eyes as his fingers grasp Eames’s wrist and he hauls him up to standing. Eames grunts, sways, and smiles gratefully at Hunter who steadies him with a hand at his elbow. He must be well and truly pissed, Arthur muses, since normally, Eames isn’t favourably inclined towards relative strangers touching him without permission.

Arthur’s hypothesis is proven correct when Eames turns his toothy grin on him. He doesn’t seem to mind that he’s the centre of attention of the entire bar, but then again, he’s never had an issue with that, drunk or not.

“This is very important” Eames states, not bothering to elaborate. “Very, very… important.” He frowns at his own limited, inebriated vocabulary, confused. Arthur refuses to find it endearing or some such nonsense.

Eames pokes him in the chest with a finger, setting himself off balance again. This time it’s Arthur who catches him before he can keel over. “It concerns you” Eames declares seriously, seemingly deep in thought, trying to work out what brought him here.

It’s Hunter’s voice that startles Arthur back into the awkward present. “Right, I think we’re all settled?”

“Yes. Fuck, sorry about…” Arthur nods towards Eames who is now apparently contemplating his hand that has settled fully against Arthur’s chest. Arthur ignores the warmth he feels where Eames is touching him.

Eames is a handsy drunk – mind you, he’s handsy when he’s sober. Which is why Arthur has a keen interest in extracting himself from this situation pronto and probably taking Eames with him before he causes a fucking riot. Or destroys Arthur’s reputation for good.

But Hunter just shakes his head in casual dismissal and throws him a far too knowing wink before exiting the bar.

Arthur is going to make Eames pay for every single comment he knows he’ll have thrown his way during the job. Oh, he’s going to make him _pay_. It’s going to be slow and painful.

“Where’s your date gone?” Eames suddenly asks, brightly. There are tiny shards of glass glinting in his hair.

“He wasn’t my date” Arthur hisses sharper than necessary. He’s really starting to hate this place.

Eames regards him a little strangely, as if pondering whether to believe him before something that looks dangerously like relief softens his frown.

Right. Arthur is in desperate need of fresh air. “Let’s get you out of here” he mutters, impatiently ushering Eames towards the entrance. Much to the relief of the bartender, he notices.

Eames doesn’t even try to hold himself up, leaning heavily into Arthur’s side as Arthur steers them out of the bar and round the corner, off the main street. He deposits Eames against the brick wall and takes a step back, inordinately grateful for the breathing space.

Inhaling a deep lungful of the cool night air, Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. He really doesn’t have the nerve to deal with Eames’s antics now. “How much have you had?”

“Yes, I am drunk” Eames declares grandly with a wide sweep of his arms that almost sends him flying again, clearly not entirely on track with the conversation.

“I gathered” Arthur says dryly. So much for a decently quiet night. Secure Hunter for their team, maybe get a headstart on the mountain of research this job requires, finish the day with another drink in the peace and solitude of his apartment, and then get some much needed sleep. That had been his plan up until twenty minutes ago. But Eames had cheerfully thrown that out the window. Arthur sighs, bracing himself for another one of their futile arguments. Hands on his hips he plants himself in front of Eames and demands, “So what’s your glorious reason, then, for crashing my—”

“Date.”

“For fuck’s sake, Eames, it wasn’t a date.”

“Right. Because you don’t do those.” Eames’s eyes land on Arthur’s and for a moment he seems entirely sober.

Arthur hesitates for a split second before he decides to take the easy way out. “No, I don’t. So what is it, Eames?”

Something passes over Eames’s face, a flash of hurt, but it’s gone as soon as it appears so Arthur can’t be sure. The narrow alley they’re standing in is only dimly lit, he might have misinterpreted the quick shift in the forger’s features.

Eames doesn’t answer, just slumps back against the wall of the building and rakes a hand through his hair. For a moment he looks almost thoughtful as he buries his hands in his pockets. Arthur has just enough time to register the way the streetlamp at the corner throws Eames’s profile in sharp contrast before Eames swears, flinching and pulling his hands out again.

“Bloody hell.”

Arthur follows his gaze downwards. “Shit, Eames, you’re bleeding.” He takes a step closer without conscious thought. “Here, show me.”

Arthur tries to grab one of Eames’s hands but he snatches it away, brings it closer to his face, eyes widening when he sees the small pieces of glass embedded in his skin. He prods at one with a finger and scowls in a mixture of surprise and pain. “It hurts.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “What did you expect, idiot? You smashed a beer glass, remember? Now show me.” This time, he catches Eames’s wrist more forcefully, ignoring the way Eames winces. “Serves you right.”

Wide, incredulous eyes stare at him in disbelief.

“Don’t look so upset. You get what you deserve, never heard of that? Should spare a thought to that every now and again.”

Eames looks as though he’s considering it, decides he doesn’t like, then changes his mind and says, cheerily, “Don’t you think we deserve each other, pet?”

If Arthur had a penny for every time he sighed or rolled his eyes at the bastard, he’d have been rich way before the inception job. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Predictably, Eames interprets that to his own advantage. “Oh, lots of lovely things” he says, grinning impishly.

Arthur doesn’t deem this thread of the conversation worthy of continuation and instead turns Eames’s wrist in his grasp to inspect the cuts. Nothing major, nothing he can’t fix with tweezers and disinfectant.

“Right.” He opens his mouth to say more but when he glances up he finds Eames looking at him with bright, trust-filled blue eyes, the ghost of his grin still playing around the corners of his mouth. He clearly hasn’t shaved in day or two and the shadows accentuate the light stubble. Arthur’s fingers tighten minutely around his wrist.

He swallows and hopes Eames is too drunk to notice his slip up. He’s going to need more than tweezers and disinfectant to fix himself tonight.

Then Eames makes the mistake of scratching the back of his head with his other hand and immediately pulls a face.

Arthur wants to laugh at the innocent incredulity in his eyes, the moment forgotten. “Don’t tell me. It hurts?” he deadpans.

Eames nods a little miserably and Arthur shakes his head at this man’s utter ridiculousness. He’d find it adorable if that didn’t get him in more trouble than it’s worth.

He releases Eames’s hand, places a steadying hand on his shoulder instead as he moves closer, despairing a bit at the state of Eames’s hair. Trying to find his emotional equilibrium again, Arthur starts picking glass shards from the messy strands, pointedly not thinking about how this would look to any curious passers-by.

Eames does not seem as determined to give Arthur’s poor nerves a break. “You do realise how this looks, Arthur.” His voice is muffled, the words still slightly slurred where they’re muttered into Arthur’s trenchcoat. Eames has sagged forward, resting his forehead onto Arthur’s shoulder. He hums contentedly.

Of course he couldn’t make Arthur’s life easy, for once.

“Hold still before you do any more damage” Arthur scolds, pushing Eames upright again.

“Damage?” Eames asks, entirely too innocently. “Darling, I’m trying to repair things.”

Arthur raises a doubtful eyebrow at him. “If this is you repairing things I’d hate to see you on a destructive spree. But I can’t say I’m surprised” he adds under his breath. Eames’s approach to pretty much anything has always been rather… hands-on and headfirst.

Eames seems to have heard him anyway. They are standing much too close. Arthur needs to do something about that. Preferably now. “What’s that mean?”

In lieu of an answer, Arthur yanks a little harder than necessary at a strand of short hair.

“Ow” Eames protests.

Arthur hides a smile in the dark of the alleyway. The – absolutely justified – anger he’d felt earlier has dissipated, making room for a feeling of fond exasperation. He’d still rather have concluded this evening without any Eames-shaped incidents but he supposes Eames’s noisy appearance was one way to get him out of there. Whatever he says to the contrary, Arthur doesn’t exactly mind him showing up out of the blue. Eames has knocked on his door drunk, injured, or looking lost enough times that Arthur stopped changing his address years ago in case it happened again. It might be careless but even Eames, social butterfly that he is, needs a place to go to sometimes. A door he knows will open no matter what he’s gotten himself into. Arthur has made his peace with providing that door. He supposes he stuck around because Eames kept coming back to him and at least this way Arthur can keep an eye on him.

He tells himself, and Eames, that’s all there is.

The man is too self-destructive for either of their good. Well. Arthur’s one to talk.

Eames moves again, shuffling his feet and accidentally dislodging Arthur’s hand from his hair.

Arthur grumbles impatiently, withdrawing his hands altogether and taking a step back. The air is colder here. “Do you want me to leave you here? Because I’d have no qualms doing just that.”

Eames gapes at him in mock-terror but the tiredness creeping in around his eyes is unmistakeable. “I can’t believe you’d abandon me, darling.”

Arthur ignores the sting in his chest those words inspire. He wouldn’t do that. Would he? “Right, you’re coming back to my place so I can clean those wounds up properly. And for God’s sake stop fidgeting!”

Before he can overthink his decision, Arthur grabs Eames’s arm if only to make sure he doesn’t collapse and drags him with him, pretending to be deaf to Eames’s suggestive jibe of “Are you taking me home, darling? How audacious of you.”

A light rain sets in as they walk to the nearest subway station. Arthur’s immensely grateful Eames didn’t manage to get any blood on his shirt. That would have probably drawn the odd suspicious eye. He tries not to think too hard about Eames’s words. This definitely does not count as _taking him home._ Not that Arthur would ever consider that even if it qualified.

He definitely wouldn’t consider it while sober. He can’t quite speak for his inebriated self.

Arthur firmly shuts that door before he can peer behind it and instead focuses on getting Eames down the stairs in one piece. On the way to his place Eames shamelessly and yet innocently leans into the touch where Arthur still hasn’t removed his steadying hand.

Arthur counts the subway stops and reminds himself at least twice that Eames is drunk and that it would be a disastrous idea in whatever shape or form.

He’d rather wake up to Eames passed out on his couch than an empty bed.

When they arrive Arthur manoeuvres Eames over to the kitchen table and goes to the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit. He’s about to sit down next to Eames when he changes his mind, turns and pours himself a measure of Scotch. Fuck it. He’s earned it.

“I always knew you were kind at heart” Eames murmurs as he reaches for the glass.

Arthur swats his hand away, immediately hating himself for the hiss of pain the inconsiderate reaction causes. “Hands off. You’re not getting any, you’ve clearly had enough.”

“Feeling cruel tonight, are we” Eames mutters, miffed.

Arthur sighs. He can do without the judgmental tone tonight. He can manage that just fine himself. “Eames. You’re here, aren’t you? Give me your hand.”

Eames, thankfully, lets Arthur work in silence for a while. He tries to be as careful as possible, gently swabbing at the reddened skin, cleaning away the crusted blood. Most of the cuts are superficial but there’s one piece stuck a little deeper in his left palm and Eames inhales sharply when the tweezers tug too harshly. Arthur glances up at him, then sighs and nudges the whisky towards him. Eames smiles gratefully but averts his eyes quickly as he takes a carefully measured sip. The worst of his self-inflicted intoxication seems to have worn off. One sure sign for that is the cessation of his constant rambling.

Arthur turns his gaze back to his work but keeps watching Eames in his peripherals. Suddenly, he can’t stand the silence any longer so he asks, quietly, “Eames?”

Eames’s answering hum is just as soft. “Hm?”

“You still haven’t answered my question. Why did you turn up at the bar tonight?”

Eames sounds entirely serious when he says, “I need you to save me.”

Arthur would argue he’s already doing that on a daily basis. “From what?” he indulges, struggling a bit not to sound condescending despite Eames’s earnest tone.

Eames answers without missing a beat. “Love and all that nonsense.”

Arthur snorts. “Is that so?”

“Yes. Because you seem to be able to just chuck it out the window.”

Arthur’s fingers still. He lifts his head to find Eames staring into the middle distance. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He wants to say that it’s not as easy as Eames seems to think. He wants and doesn’t want to spiral back to that less than inconspicuous word that has his throat feeling tight and dry. He really wants to down the rest of the Scotch.

“Why won’t you love me?” Eames suddenly asks as he whips his head around to face Arthur. It almost sounds accusing but there’s something desperate in his eyes. “I’ve tried everything, Arthur. Everything. I pretended to coincidentally be in town for a few days, I got myself injured, I gave in to plain stupidity and fucking loneliness. I’ve turned up on your doorstep in the middle of the night and you’ve never turned me away so I know you can’t hate me that much. But you also never ask me to stay. Why? What am I doing wrong?”

“A lot of things judging by that list of absurdities.” The response is slapdash, the words out of his mouth before he can think them through.

The look of hurt in Eames’s eyes is unbearable.

Arthur drags his eyes away by sheer force of will and snatches the glass of whisky from the table as he stands up. The chair makes a horrible screeching noise as it scrapes over the tiles. Putting some distance between them, Arthur leans against the kitchen counter, downs the amber liquid in one gulp. Only then does the meaning of Eames’s words register.

“You did _what_?” Arthur blurts. He stares at Eames in astonishment, not knowing what to do with this new information. “Is that why you…” he trails off, gestures a little helplessly with the empty glass.

“Not that any of those tactics held much success” Eames mutters darkly, far too sober for a man who nearly wrecked bar furniture tonight and who’s probably got a concussion, now that Arthur thinks about it. His head did take a beating tonight.

It seems his heart is next.

“And no, tonight wasn’t another one of those _absurdities_ ” Eames continues, viciously emphasising the last word. He’s picking at the cuts on his hands now and Arthur tamps down on the urge to stop him. “If you can’t bring yourself to even so much as like me, just tell me. If you’re just… _tolerating_ me. But it wouldn’t be true, Arthur, would it? There’s something here and don’t you deny it.” Finally he looks at Arthur, a storm behind those blue eyes.

Arthur doesn’t know where to look. “Don’t be silly, Eames, I don’t just tolerate you. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t like you.” He stops himself from saying _if I didn’t care for you_ at the last second. Because he can’t acknowledge the truth in what Eames is saying. Not now, not ever, and definitely not like this, with both of them under the influence.

“Then why?” Eames prompts, apparently determined to either mend or break.

It’s up to Arthur to decide what it’ll be.

“You know it’s not—” Arthur doesn’t know how to finish that sentence so he lets it hang there. _It’s not you, it’s me?_ Not exactly the most original excuse. If not entirely untrue.

He takes a breath, starts again. “This is a terrible idea for a lot of reasons and you know that.”

Eames blinks at him. “Why?” he asks again and the earnestness in that one simple word throws Arthur for a second. But it also makes him angry. Does Eames truly believe Arthur’s stupid enough to fall for his charade?

He sighs wearily, scrubs a hand over his face. “Do you really need me to spell it out for you?”

“Yes, I think I do.” There’s a challenge there somewhere but Arthur has a creeping feeling that the seriousness he hears clearly in Eames’s voice is genuine.

“Right. Okay.” Arthur steels himself for a fight. “But remember: You asked for this.” He briefly considers pouring himself some more liquid courage but then dismisses the idea. That’d only make matters worse and he needs this to be over quickly. He can deal with getting out of his own head later.

“You want to know why? Because you’re a notorious flirt who doesn’t mean half the things he says. Because you make a living out of pretending and deceiving and as soon as you lose interest, you’re gone. Because you put your own selfish motives first. Because _for a few days_ –”

That’s precisely the point but Arthur doesn’t know how to say it so that Eames understands. Maybe it goes against any rule of not forming attachments Arthur has ever set for himself but he can’t help that he wants more than just one night. That he wants what he fears most, a love with the feel of old shoes, comfortable, familiar, permanent. And that he wants it with Eames because Eames is familiar and comfortable and so damn charming and his ridiculously exaggerated behaviour is fucking endearing and Arthur adores him despite knowing better. And if he’s not allowed to have that, well then he’s not about to risk their friendship – because they are friends, even he has to admit that – for a tumble in the sheets. If he’s not enough for Eames to change his ways then he’d rather have nothing at all.

Eames must read some of what he doesn’t say on his face because he stands up, expression softer, no hint of that challenging anger remaining. “You’re being unfair, Arthur, and you know it.”

Arthur ducks away before Eames can reach him, caught off-guard by the lack of antagonism in his tone and posture. “You can get satisfaction anywhere, why do you have to play your games with me?”

Eames looks at him in utter confusion. “I would never do this to you, darling” he promises solemnly.

Arthur rounds on him. “Stop fucking calling me that!” he hisses, his own anger flaring once again.

“Why?” Eames asks, voice neutral, and Arthur’s getting tired of the question, of the constant repetition, of having to explain this again and again. It’s like they’re on a fucking merry-go-round. “Because you don’t mean it, you never do!” He practically shouts the words but Eames doesn’t even flinch. He just looks incredibly sad.

“Oh, Arthur” he sighs and it drains the fight right out of them both. “What do I have to do to prove it to you?”

Arthur shrugs, he doesn’t know how to answer that.

Ever so gently, Eames takes his hands in both of his injured ones and steps into Arthur’s space. But Arthur can’t do this, not now, not yet, not when it might just destroy everything.

“At least let me bandage your hands” he murmurs, freeing himself from Eames’s gentle grasp and walking over to the kitchen table.

He hears Eames sigh behind him and it sounds weary and resigned. Just for a second Arthur asks himself why he keeps doing this. Is he so in love with defeat that letting himself consider even for a moment would be betraying himself? Rejecting Eames has almost become a sport. Sometimes Arthur isn’t sure where he’s found the energy to keep it up all these years.

He sits down, waits until Eames has settled himself across from him, arms outstretched, hands placed on the table as if in offering. Arthur digs around the first aid kit for some gauze and starts carefully wrapping Eames’s hands, clenching his teeth, not thinking about skin brushing against skin. He’s waiting for Eames to say something, to try and convince him, or maybe to prove him right after all but Eames does nothing of the sort. He just sits there silently, patiently waiting for Arthur to finish.

Again, Arthur feels the silence start to stifle him and he’s talking before he can stop himself. “I can’t just let myself be swept off my feet by someone who doesn’t even mean to… do any sweeping” he finishes lamely, hiding the blush he can feel rushing on in the bow of his head. As soon as the words are out he wishes he could take them back. There’s too much honesty in them, too much rawness around the edges.

“I swept you off your feet?” Eames asks, bewildered, surprised, oh so cautiously hopeful. “Because I definitely meant to do some sweeping.” He smiles when Arthur meets his eyes and it’s shy and beautiful.

But Arthur hasn’t exhausted his repertoire of destruction yet. “It’s too dangerous with what we do. You’ve seen what happened to Dom and Mal, you’ve been there. It doesn’t make sense to risk what we have now along with our safety for this.”

Eames shakes his head, starts to protest. “Arthur, you’re worth every risk.”

Arthur drives the knife deeper. “How would this even work? We argue half the time we talk, how on earth are we going to make this work? We don’t stand the slightest chance of surviving.”

Eames stares at him with wide, wounded eyes, taken aback. He’s so utterly, genuinely surprised that he doesn’t speak, just watches Arthur with such hurt and betrayal that Arthur fears he might just have burned the last bridge between them. Why is he so determined to drive him away? Why does he need to keep finding reasons not to trust him? The battle of emotions fighting for reign on Eames’s face seems to be asking him the same question.

It’s too late now, anyway, it doesn’t matter anymore whether this is a bad idea or not because they won’t ever be anything, Arthur’s just made sure of that. So it doesn’t matter if he keeps talking. “And if that doesn’t break us, then the fact that someone will use us as leverage against each other will. I’m not about to build everything on something I’m going to lose anyway.”

Eames growls, a deep sound in his throat, and it sounds frustrated. “Bloody hell, Arthur, will you stop talking.” He gets up suddenly, chair falling over from the force of it, grabs Arthur’s shirt front and pulls him halfway over the table to smash their mouths together.

It’s sloppy and not the right angle, noses bumping, and the rushed movement has Eames almost losing his balance but Arthur loses his breath. He’s too stunned to kiss back and he doesn’t know if that’s what makes Eames pull back or the need for air but he hopes to God it’s the latter.

Eames pants, trying to catch his breath, fingers still fisted in Arthur’s shirt and Arthur knows it must be painful.

“Why are you making this so bloody difficult?” The words rush out on an exhale and Arthur is too overwhelmed by what just happened and the simple fact that Eames is _still here_ to put words into a coherent order.

Finally, Eames lets go of him but surprises Arthur anew when instead of putting space between them, he rounds the table, picking up the chair as he goes and sits down in front of Arthur, elbows on his knees, regarding him with an unreadable expression.

Arthur still doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Eames hangs his head and sighs but when he looks up again, the eyes that search out Arthur’s are soft and sincere. “Is it really so absurd to think that I’m in love with you?” he asks gently. “Because I am. Madly” he adds with a smile. It’s a tiny, cautious thing.

Arthur feels his defences finally crumble. He looks away, not able to say this to Eames’s face. His voice is hoarse when he speaks and he can still taste Eames on his lips. “I just don’t want to lose you.” The admission sounds too loud in the small space between them.

“Arthur, what makes you think—”

“Because let’s face it, I will fuck this up eventually.” It doesn’t matter if Eames loves him or if he loves Eames. It’s just another inevitability that Arthur would like to avoid as long as he possibly can. “If the last ten years haven’t taught you that then I don’t know what will.”

Eames just smiles. “Darling, if the past ten years haven’t taught you that I won’t give up then I am seriously questioning your capabilities as a point man.”

Arthur hasn’t missed that particular detail. He’s just never looked at it long enough to see what it really meant.

Eames chuckles quietly, warmly, and there is not the faintest trace of mockery in it, just an affection that Arthur isn’t sure he deserves after tonight. It seems he has to re-evaluate Eames’s capacity for honesty and love and not lie to himself this time.

Tender fingertips touch his temple, running up into his hairline before a broad, bandaged hand gently cups Arthur’s cheek. Eames gives him plenty of time to pull away but this time, Arthur doesn’t fight it. He closes his eyes, leaning into the hand that holds him, leaning forward, and lets Eames set the pace. Their second kiss is more like Arthur imagined their first would be, unhurried and gentle because he will deny it until the end of time but he is a bit of a sap at heart. And because there’s time for frantic and heated later. Maybe in the very near future.

It still lights a fire in his insides, the feeling of Eames’s lips on his and Arthur leans closer, braces a hand on Eames’s thigh, lets the other curl around his neck to draw him closer, kiss him deeper. Arthur finds his own desperation mirrored in the way Eames goes willingly, cradling his face, caressing his skin as he kisses him again and again until they’re both desperate for air. Even then Arthur is unwilling to let him go. His head is reeling from the violence of tonight’s back and forths. But that’s just the way they are, he supposes. There is no doing things in halves, only full force. But maybe with more regard for the consequences than Arthur would have given them credit for.

Eames gathers him close, bumping their knees together in the process and the position is just as awkward as that first kiss but Arthur buries any lingering embarrassment into Eames’s shoulder along with a rather stupid smile.

“I should warn you” he murmurs into the fabric of Eames’s shirt. “I haven’t been in a relationship in years. You should know what you’re getting yourself into.” It’s easier to say now that the hard part is over. Arthur still feels faintly ridiculous.

“Darling?” Eames asks sweetly, smoothing his hand soothingly up and down Arthur’s spine.

Arthur never really hated the pet name that much. “What?”

“Am I the reason?”

Arthur jabs him the side but the effect is lost this close. “Your ego’s already too big to fit through the door” he grumbles into his neck and feels Eames laugh. It vibrates all the way through Arthur’s body and he basks in the feeling for a wonderful moment.

A thought crosses his mind and his heart starts beating faster in his chest. He leans back a little, not quite disentangling himself. “Eames?” he begins, not waiting for an answer, ploughing on now that he still has the courage. “Stay? For tonight. Please.”

Eames positively _beams_ at him, smile so blindingly bright that Arthur supposes he’s done the right thing for once. Eames looks a bit like he did at the bar and also like he wants to say something terribly sweet and possibly far too fast but he keeps his mouth shut and just presses a kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth.

“I’ll behave” he promises solemnly but the glint in his eyes is still mischievous.

“You don’t have to” Arthur starts but Eames shushes him.

“But I want to.”

It’s silly, really, how he makes a point of not looking when Arthur changes into his pyjamas but it’s also strangely sweet, a gesture that Arthur suspects his doubts of Eames’s sincerity have brought on. It makes him ache but he pushes this particular worry to the back of his mind, for now. He’ll have to make up for a lot and he’s not going to let Eames brush it away with a smile and a murmured reassurance.

Wandering back into the kitchen, Arthur cleans away the bloody evidence of the night’s rougher events and packs up the first aid kit. When he turns around he finds Eames watching him, leaning in the doorway with a glass of whisky halfway to his lips. He’s smiling. It’s a bit soft and a bit devilish.

Arthur swallows and quickly averts his eyes, clearing his throat. “I thought you said you’d behave” he mumbles as he shoulders past him towards the bathroom. He doesn’t need to see the smug expression to know it’s there.

“No more stunts like tonight, okay?” Arthur calls as he puts everything away.

When he emerges from the bathroom, Eames is blocking his way, gaze fond and a little tired. “Now that I have the assurance of your devotion, there won’t be any need for that.”

He’s always been in the middle of this, he just wasn’t sure of where he stood. Arthur is only half joking when he says, with a nod to the glass of Scotch in Eames’s bandaged hand, “Just promise me you’ll remember this tomorrow.”

Eames smiles softly. “How could I ever forget you, darling?”

**Author's Note:**

> Because I’m me, I couldn’t resist quoting a few song lyrics.  
> “A love with the feel of old shoes” – White Lies – Denial  
> “We’re in love with defeat” – U2 – Every Breaking Wave
> 
> Do leave your thoughts in the comments and stay tuned for version number 2 if you like! Until then, thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
